


cold shafts of sun shadows

by ODed_on_jingle_jangle



Series: snakes to a mongoose [4]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Gore, F/M, Gen, Graphic Description, Haircuts, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Major Character Injury, Minor Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones, Near Death, Painkillers, Partial Nudity, Past Rape/Non-con, Platonic Female/Female Relationships, Rape Aftermath, Season/Series 02, Trauma, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 09:22:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18891733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ODed_on_jingle_jangle/pseuds/ODed_on_jingle_jangle
Summary: Since her sixteenth birthday, Betty has made it a point to donate blood as often as she can and fuzzily wonders if some of the blood she receives from the transfusions was hers to begin with.Does that happen? Can people receive their own donated blood?Betty wants to ask but her mind can’t properly form the question. Her thoughts float away from her like paper sailboats on the pond, solid one moment, soggy and sunken the next.





	cold shafts of sun shadows

**Author's Note:**

> So here is the last one-shot to the most self-indulgent collection I've ever posted. I think I've warned for everything in the tags but let's touch base here just to be sure. No rape or violence takes place in this fic, so I did not use the Archive Warnings. However, such events are heavily referenced. Beware. 
> 
> On that note, I don't care if you think I'm gross. A helluva lotta y'all must be gross too 'cause the first part in this collection that actually depicts those events has more hits than anything else I've ever posted on Ao3. Not just this account either, like out of all my accounts, that one has the most. 
> 
> So this takes place immediately after and then like, during the other fics in this collection. Beginning bit is very slightly inspired by Animal Kingdom s2e6 where Nicky shoots herself. But only like, a little bit. The following is very focused on Platonic!Beronica. While I am an avid multishipper and adore it as a ship, I love their friendship just as much and this collection made for a good opportunity to explore it. 
> 
> This fic obviously has nothing to do with s3 but that said, I am going to take a moment here to praise the s3 finale. I enjoyed it far more than the s2 finale. It was a ridiculous romp of all things that make Riverdale, Riverdale. While there was a lot to love, my two favorite things were B&V showcasing how much they care about each other and the HTGAWM shout-out at the end. 
> 
> And with that, I will end this long ass author's note before its word count surpasses that of the dang fic.

Betty struggles on the grass, semen cooling on her skin while blood floods hot between her thighs. She feebly rolls onto her forearms, and almost chokes on a surge of vomit when she feels the unnatural shift of bones grinding against each other in her broken legs. Searing agony explodes every inch Betty drags herself forward, sending stars dazzling through her vision like the annual fireworks over Sweetwater River.

She battles back the pain as best she can, determined to carry on. Betty is nothing if not a survivor, she refuses to die here like— like Jughead did?

Betty fumbles, drops to the ground as the reminder knocks the breath out of her lungs. She can still taste his blood in her mouth, even under the revolting tastes that’ve stained her tongue since, the pungent intrusions of flavors she never wanted and coarse pubic hairs stuck between her teeth. Here in the forest, coated in others’ fluids and bathed in her own blood, the realization that the love of her life is gone sinks its teeth into her heart.

She pules a sob to no one and urges herself onward anyway. A part of her wants to give up, to let herself succumb to her wounds and drift into the darkness. To wake up to some kind of after where Jughead is and things are warm, and they can share a sweet bubble of bliss without bloodthirsty gangbangers or self-righteous serial killers.

She plants her palms to the chilly ground and digs her fingers into the dirt to drag herself just another inch. Because no matter how easy it would be— how tempting —to collapse and close her eyes, she will not let herself. She won’t allow Jughead’s sacrifice to be entirely in vain, she won’t leave her mom and Polly to cope with the fallout of her father’s crimes alone, she won’t add another funeral to Archie and Veronica’s schedule.

Blinding pain crashes over Betty in riptides that drown out the world. She can barely see where she’s going. Always so much fog in Riverdale, feels like it’s getting thicker every day. Plunging her elbows into the peat, Betty pushes forth, tunnel vision focused on what she prays is the path back to town.

She thinks it’s the way the Ghoulies and Penny went, but she’s starting to get dizzy and this isn’t a certainty. The fog swirls above her, disorienting. Below the waist, she is a mire of torment and Betty wishes she could bisect herself like a lizard detaching its tail. Grow a whole new half with new unhurt, untouched, unbroken flesh. But in this moment, she doesn’t have time to digest what’s happened to her, to dwell on her heartbreak or the trauma. Escape must be her priority because she has no energy to multitask.

Betty crawls for an indeterminable eternity, growing dizzier all the while. She hears her teeth chattering before she realizes she is cold, but once the realization dawns, it hits her almost as powerfully as the realization that Jughead’s been murdered. She is deeply, unspeakably cold.

The cold comes from the inside, as though her heart is pumping gelid slush in place of blood. Maybe it has to. Maybe she’s run out of blood. Her frigid fingers can scarcely grip the grass anymore. She keeps slipping. She tries, but she slips, and each try saps more and more of her dwindling strength.

For a moment, she thinks she hears someone calling her name, a faraway sound that fades in the wind. The cold is made worse by the wind. It claws at her like an arctic gale. Blackness encroaches on her vision and Betty draws upon all the life left in her to keep her eyes open.

She can’t abandon everyone else. She can’t be the next tragedy of the town, the next casualty heaped upon its ever-widening pile of bodies. But no matter how hard she tries, she is fighting a losing battle. Her limbs simply refuse to cooperate.

She summons some means of strength through sheer stubbornness and gets to her forearms once more. They buckle immediately. She flops back on her belly like a crushed frog. Her head swims dizzily, little gasps of air puffing through teeth too tired to keep chattering.

 _Oh,_ comes tonight’s third sucker punch of a realization, _I can’t move anymore._

Betty swears she hears her name again and maybe it’s her beloved beckoning from the beyond, but more than likely, it’s just her flagging coherence playing tricks on her. Shadows peel themselves off the trees and rearrange, new shapes flickering in and out of existence. One distinctly resembles a humanoid form and as it dashes toward her, Betty concludes it must be the Grim Reaper himself.

But when the shape sprints into the moonlight, it’s no reaper of any sort. It is her oldest friend, his eyes popped wide in pure panic. He scrambles to a stop and throws himself down beside her.

“Betty!” he exclaims, distractedly wrestling off the varsity jacket. “Betty, can you hear me?”

“Arch,” she mumbles, stomach twisting as her emotions clash. Relief at the sight of him, but an unshakable sense of impending doom that this will be the last time. “M’dying. Jug’s dead, m’dying too.”

“No, no, no, Betty, stay with me.” Archie drapes his jacket over her torso and gathers her in his arms.

He lifts and Betty yelps weakly in pain. She struggles to recover her composure but she can’t even catch her breath. Her lungs won’t seem to fill, the air barely scrapes over her throat before whooshing right out.

“Y’ve gotta look out for my mom, Arch,” she pleads, desperation heightening.

“No, no, don’t go there,” Archie tells her sharply. “Jug’s not dead, Betty, you hear me? He’s fighting, you have to fight too.”

“Wh—“ Betty’s gasp turns to a whimper as her friend abruptly begins jogging, her injuries silently screaming with every bump and bounce.

“I’m sorry,” he promises, shaky but determined. “I know it hurts but we need to get you out of here.”

“Jug…?” she asks, tentative hope too frail to push the remainder of the question off her lips.

Archie understands anyway.

“Yeah, Juggie’s hanging in there. You gotta hang in there too, Betty. He needs you, we all do.”

Overwhelming relief crashes over Betty like a typhoon, so powerful she’d cry if she had the strength. Even as she hangs slack in her childhood friend’s arms, she soaks in the solace of her worst fear proven wrong.

“Hey, hey!” Archie’s pitch raises with alarm. “Betty, stay awake!”

“Trying,” she mutters, head listlessly lolling against his shoulder.

The pain is probably the only thing tethering Betty to her consciousness. Moments ago the dark was on the verge of stealing her away, but the white hot anguish of Archie’s rapid steps violently jerks her back to awareness. She embraces this pain wholeheartedly, ready to bear it tenfold if it means making it home.

* * *

She is hypovolemic and hypothermic and many other terms she only vaguely understands that mostly all add up to bad. Since her sixteenth birthday, Betty has made it a point to donate blood as often as she can and fuzzily wonders if some of the blood she receives from the transfusions was hers to begin with.

Does that happen? Can people receive their own donated blood?

Betty wants to ask but her mind can’t properly form the question. Her thoughts float away from her like paper sailboats on the pond, solid one moment, soggy and sunken the next.

The only thing that truly sticks with Betty through the first night is the expression on her mother’s face of raw, fraught terror that even facing off against the Black Hood hadn’t brought out of her.

When she feels clear enough, she asks about Jughead, and while she can’t hang onto the answers she gets verbatim, she is able to gather that he is safe. He is safe and that is enough.

* * *

Betty doesn’t know quite when the first night ends and the second day begins. She only knows when things become slightly less murky. She can grasp her surroundings better, makes note of thin, bleached sheets and eggshell white walls.

From her genitalia to her anus, Betty has more stitches than Frankenstein’s monster. Internal dissolvable ones, external silk ones. Skin glue where applicable. A hodgepodge of sutures to piece together the maimed mess where she was endlessly fucked in the worst ways possible.

Betty is rewarded for her grievous injuries with generous pain medication.  
  
With all the dope they’ve got her on, she feels like and fluffy as candy floss at the carnival. She melts into the weightlessness and the warmth, separated from the pain she senses lurking in the shadows like a nocturnal predator. However, even as out of it as she is, Betty does know this is a temporary reprieve.

Her cotton candy brain hasn’t been able to memorize much in the flurry of activity in the aftermath of what everybody’s aptly described as Riot Night, but a few things have stuck out, here and there. An overheard conversation between her mother and her doctor was so chilling she simply couldn’t stomach it, even with the angelic choir of the opioids in her veins.

If Penny’s knife had gone an inch higher, an inch deeper, she’d have been disemboweled. She was a cut away from vaginal evisceration. An inch higher, an inch deeper, and she would’ve been a corpse with her intestines spilling out between her legs. The grisly image lingers in her mind’s eye like a Polaroid snapshot and no amount of medication can erase it.

An inch higher, an inch deeper, and that’s the reality her already thoroughly traumatized loved ones would have to swallow in the event of identifying her body. Guts dumped over bloody thighs.

When they visit her, these are still the thoughts reeling through her mind and she simply can’t engage with them. She squirms out of her mother’s frantic hovering, shies away from Archie’s affectionate hug, dismisses Veronica’s company and tells her to kiss Jug because she can’t kiss him herself.

Betty covers all of this with the excuse of being tired. And she is tired, of course, but that’s not really why she needs them to go.

* * *

Betty sleeps through most of the third day. She’s more exhausted than she’s ever been before. Beating death took a lot out of her. Healing is going to take even more.

So she sleeps and sleeps, but in between the sleeps, the world begins to sharpen. The third day is much clearer than the second. At some point she is shown her x-rays, and fitted for two clean, white fiberglass casts that go up to the knee.

She sleeps again after that and upon waking, zones out to the television in her room. A made for tv movie she somewhat pays attention to, enough so to feel that vicarious satisfaction when the main characters win their happy ending. And when that movie’s over, her mother takes her bandaged hand, gazing into Betty’s eyes intently.

“What is it, Mom?”

“I think you should talk to the police, honey,” her mother says carefully, almost in the same voice she once used to tell Betty Santa Claus wasn’t real, but more worn somehow.

“I already gave my statement about Dad,” Betty says, her stomach churning.

“Dad isn’t what I was thinking of,” her mother continues, eyes wavering.

“Well, I don’t have anything else to tell them about,” Betty swallows before her voice can catch.

“Betty…”

Betty tugs her hand out of her mother’s grasp, shaking her head.

“I don’t have anything to tell them about,” she repeats. “Sheriff Minetta is corrupt anyway.”

For once, her persistent-to-a-fault mother does not press her. Betty pointedly fixes her gaze back on the television and concentrates on zoning out again.

* * *

On the fourth day, Betty confronts being raped.

She was raped by more people than she’s ever had consensual sex with and she doesn’t remember the faces of half of them. While she may not recall their faces, she’ll never forget their eyes. None of them looked at her and saw a person. They all looked at her and saw a meat sheath.

She knows those eyes well, she thinks every girl and woman does. They’re the eyes Chuck Clayton ogled her through, the eyes of the patrons at the Whyte Worm when she did the Serpent Dance, the eyes that shone in the dark on the other side of the screen during her short lived cam-girl days. It’s different than just sexual attraction, feels all kinds of wrong on her skin.

Jughead has looked at her a thousand times like he’s in the mood, and not once has his gaze stripped her of her personhood. He’ll look her up and down, mischievous quirk of this half-grin that tells her he wants to be inside. And he wants to be inside her, Betty Cooper, not some meat sheath for his dick devoid of identity. Jug’s attraction makes her feel sexy, puts a sensual sway into her hips.

The meat sheath stare isn’t sexy. It puts her on edge, makes her feel like a rabbit in a foxhole no matter smoothly she hopes she’s perfected the mask of indifference. Penny’s the only woman who’s ever looked at her like that and of course, Penny did a lot more than look.

They all did.

Betty chews her lip as his heart plummets to the seasick pit of her gut. She can still feel the painful pressure of Penny’s teeth in her breast, sharp as fangs. She can still feel fingers thick as Polish sausages closing around her throat in an iron grip. She can still feel every intrusion that tore her open more than the last, her blood the lube for the next ghoul who felt like taking a turn.

Betty can’t pretend it never happened. Every stitch, every bruise tells the truth. Penny’s very initials are carved into her ass, not unlike the initials of young lovers carved into tree trunks at the park. She’s been claimed.

She feels dirty and ashamed, and guilty for her own shame because she couldn’t possibly have done anything wrong. Logically, she knows that none of this was her fault. She was attacked by people who made the choice to violate her, and they are the ones who should be ashamed. In her head all of this tracks, all of it makes sense.

But in her heart and her stomach, it’s another story. Shame burns through her like hot wax. She feels like she should’ve run faster, should’ve fought harder. She was trapped and taken in an attack orchestrated by numerous armed gang members, and surely that should be enough to make her realize that she did the best she could. And somehow, her insides still writhe against the notion and insist she should’ve done better.

She feels betrayed by her body. Betrayed by the legs that weren’t fast enough to escape her pursuers, betrayed by the fists that weren’t strong enough to fight them off, but most of all, betrayed by whatever foul thing she has inside her that allowed her to reach climax.

The very thought of it has the little hairs prickling along the back of her neck.

 _“Bet your little serpent prince never took you there that fast,”_ Penny’s taunt rings in her Betty’s ears, bile rising in the back of her throat.

In no way had she enjoyed what happened to her. She didn’t want a second of any of it, and yet her body responded to the former Snake Charmer’s ministrations. She came during her own victimization, brought to a zenith even though every lap of Penny’s tongue had felt like the lash of a whip.

Riot Night was the worst night of her life from beginning to end and Betty hates whatever sick thing must be inside her for her body to have done that, to have reached climax during her own sexual assault. It must be the same sick thing that thrives inside her father, whatever darkness or intrinsic evil that allowed him to become the Black Hood.

Is this all she is?

Is Betty’s body even hers?

Is her body just a receptacle for what other people want it to be? A weapon for Jughead’s enemies to use against him, a meat sheath for lusting monsters to shove themselves into, a husk with a heartbeat to harbor all the hideous parts of her father’s nature she never asked to have.

Betty has never felt less like herself and at the end of her rope, she shoots a text with a request to the one person she hopes will be able to handle it.

Veronica replies so fast it’s like she was waiting.

* * *

When Veronica arrives, she has several large tote bags lined along her arms. She shuts the door behind her with the wedge of her floral heel and sets them down on a chair. With the gentlest look on her face, she breezes her way to Betty’s bedside and bends so they’re eye-level, polished fingernails resting lightly on the edge of the cot.

“Hi.”

“Hey, V.”

“How are you doing, B?”

Betty lowers her gaze to the blanket, swallowing as the knot tightens in her throat.

“I don’t know,” she admits quietly.

Veronica nods, understanding. Her hand hovers over Betty’s for a moment before she lightly pats it, motion slow like she’s trying to gauge what’s okay and what isn’t.

“How much do you know?” Betty asks. “About what happened to me?”

There’s a pause as Veronica looks up, consideration falling over her face. When she looks back to Betty, she gives her hand another pat and then folds her fingers over to hold it gently.

“I know we almost lost you but you came back swinging like the badass you are,” she declares. “That’s all I need to know and I won’t ask for any details you don’t want to share, but I’m also here to be an ear for whatever you do.”

Betty nods, slow.

“I got raped,” she divulges aloud for the first time.

Veronica nods, expression unchanging, as though Betty is confirming a suspicion instead of introducing a new concept.

“They raped me where they beat Jughead up,” she continues, hating the way her voice quivers. “The Ghoulies. Penny too, even if that might sound, um. Farfetched.”

“It doesn’t sound like anything but the truth,” Veronica swears, her other hand coming to cup Betty’s chin. “I’m not here to trivialize your experiences. I’m here to do whatever you need me to.”

“Okay,” Betty exhales a long, low breath. “I wanted to prepare you. Because, um, I need to be clean. I must’ve been cleaned up a bit when they admitted me, but I need to…I wasn’t awake for it, so— so I just don’t feel clean, Veronica.”

“Of course.” Veronica rises, hands releasing Betty as she pedals back to her totes. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

Betty sits up as straight as she can. It feels weird to sit up from bed and not have hair tumbling down her shoulders. She runs her hand back through her tresses, choppy and uneven where her ponytail was shorn off. A couple pine needles fall out and flutter to the bed. Her hair will be the next thing she asks for help with but her flesh comes first.

She just feels so filthy all over, unable to shake the sense that she’s still splashed with jizz and piss even though she knows it’s since been wiped. She doesn’t expect this to fix everything or make her feel like herself again, but at least it’s something she can control.

Betty unties the hospital gown and peels it down, her torso fully exposed. Bruises and bite marks pirouette in a macabre dance across her skin.

She remembers where some of them came from, the imprints of Penny’s teeth in her breast and the row of grape like contusions where one of the Ghoulies dug his knuckles into her collarbone. A burn above her bellybutton where a different ghoul put his cigarette out before plunging inside. But for most of them, she doesn’t recall the specific moment of origin.

Veronica’s eyes widen but she retains her poise. She does not make a fuss out of the sight, doesn’t gasp or shriek or do anything to make Betty feel worse than she already does. She simply unfolds the towels in her tote and places them strategically on the bed.

“I brought a magazine if you want to check out hairstyles while I get everything ready.”

“Yeah.” Betty bobs her head. “That’s a good idea.”

“I’m sure you’ve been looking on your phone but you can’t always trust what you find on Insta. I can guarantee you these are all hot right now.” Veronica hands her the magazine.

Betty cracks a small smile that feels somewhat less fake than the one she beamed at the nurse this morning. She opens the magazine but watches Veronica instead of looking at the pictures, watches the way her friend moves about the hospital room with purpose. She fills plastic cups she brought with her in the sink and sets them on the tray by Betty’s bed.

She takes a couple washcloths out of the tote, one pale blue and the other a creamy color.

“Blue is for the soap, ecru is for the rinse,” Veronica announces. “Don’t let me forget.”

“I always remember you’re rich when you say words like ‘ecru,’” Betty teases, feeling almost normal for the first time in days.

“Shush,” Veronica rebukes, waggling a finger.

Veronica sets the cloths down and pulls out a few slim bars of packaged soap.

“So, I brought you a bit of a variety. Take your pick.”

Betty reads the names of the soap, all printed in bright lettering. _Bubblegum Bliss, Champagne Mango,_ and _Strawberry Milkshake._

“That one,” she decides, tapping her pink fingernail against _Strawberry Milkshake._

“I had a feeling you’d pick that one,” Veronica chirps pleasantly.

She moves the tray to take a seat on Betty’s bed and Betty scoots a bit to allow her more room. Veronica opens the soap, cellophane crinkling. The sweet scent of strawberries tickles Betty’s nose as Veronica dunks the bar of soap into the first plastic cup.

Veronica pulls the soap out, rubs her hand over it to work up some suds. She begins between Betty’s shoulder blades first, moving the bar down her back in soft strokes. She doesn’t linger too long, she can’t. But there’s something comforting in the sensation of bubbles popping against her skin.

Veronica cleans her arms with quick, efficient swipes, mindful of the IV tube in one hand and the bandage on the other. Betty can see her tense when she moves to her chest, Veronica’s hand halting just so, shaking slightly.

“You okay, V?” she asks.

And Veronica shakes her head, beholding Betty with eyes as warm as roasted chestnuts.

“You’re the one asking me if I’m okay? Betty Cooper, you are literally the best person ever.” Veronica puffs a fond sigh and tenderly traces the soap along her clavicle.

Betty feels far from the best person ever. In fact, she feels like the worst person ever, because only the worst person would climax during rape. Betty chokes out a sob. She doesn’t want to do this in front of Veronica. Betty wanted to portray strength for her friends and family but she is emotionally and physically fucking gutted.

The illusion lapses like an arrhythmic heartbeat, another sob burbling up her throat. Before Betty can stop herself, the tears are streaming. She hiccups and watches through a blur of mist as the soap slips from Veronica’s hands.

Betty tries to stutter out an apology, smothers it into the crook of Veronica’s neck as she is encircled in her arms. Veronica holds her together as she falls apart, shuddering with every sob. Betty’s back is sticky with soap and Veronica clutches her anyway, undoubtedly getting it all over the sleeves of her cashmere sweater.

“I know,” Veronica soothes in a honeyed murmur. “I know, I know.”

Except she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know at all.

“I’m disgusting,” Betty confesses.

Veronica’s arms stiffen. “What?”

“I’m disgusting,” she repeats in a pained whisper.

Veronica’s hands slide to her shoulders, grip soft. She holds Betty out enough to look at her, visibly shaken.

“Betty, why would you say that?”

Betty nibbles her lip, hands reflexively tightening into fists. Her already wounded palm pulses under the pressure. She presses new red crescents into the opposite.

“I climaxed,” she admits, devastated all over again as the truth touches the air.

Veronica’s eyes widen.

“The Ghoulies hobbled me like an animal. Penny put Jug’s blood in my mouth. I was terrified but when she…I still…” Betty breaks off, unable to repeat it. “What kind of monster am I? What’s wrong with me?”

“Oh, Betty,” Veronica says softly.

Delicately, she draws her hands down Betty’s arms. She uncurls the fingers in Betty’s hands and lightly threads her own between.

“Look at me and hear what I’m telling you, okay? You are not a monster. There is nothing wrong with you.”

Betty swallows, shaking her head. Veronica squeezes her hands tightly.

“Betty, no. Your body responded to the physical stimulation the way it was built to respond. That’s all. It doesn’t minimize your trauma and it absolutely does not, in any way, make you a monster.”

“Maybe not by itself but…I’ve done things, Veronica. Scary things. Like my dad.”

“You are not your father,” Veronica states, steadfast. “Any time you’ve ever lashed out, it’s because you were pushed to that point by people trying to hurt you or your friends. That’s a far cry from being a serial killer, Betty. What you are, is a survivor.”

Betty inhales, calming down as she soaks it all in.

“I will not let you torture yourself over this,” Veronica swears, gazing into Betty’s eyes with a resolute certainty. “You are my best friend and you are a good person. Okay?”

“Okay,” Betty agrees, warily putting her trust in those unwavering eyes and the steady warmth of the fingers grasping hers.

“Okay,” Veronica repeats.

She squeezes Betty’s hands once more then lets go, retrieving the bar of soap. She swishes it in the correct plastic cup and resumes her task.

“Let me know if I need to be gentler,” Veronica murmurs.

Betty nods and closes her eyes as Veronica continues brushing the soap over her skin. She follows up with the blue washcloth, its corner dunked in the sudsy water. In spite of how distraught Betty feels about Riot Night in its wretched entirety, there is something of a relief in being washed. Veronica already talked her off the edge of a breakdown and maybe if she could scrub away the residue of every unwanted touch, going forward would be that much easier.

“Alright,” Veronica hums, talking her through the process. “On to the rinsing.”

“Ecru,” Betty reminds her without opening her eyes.

“Right.” The smile is audible in Veronica’s voice.

Betty feels the gentle draw of the rinse cloth over her skin, lukewarm droplets rolling down. Veronica rinses the same way she washed, beginning with Betty’s back and intently working her way from there. Only at the conclusion of the rinse does Betty open her eyes.

She could probably dry herself but Veronica already has the towel in her hands and it’s easier just to let her do it. Veronica ruffles it attentively against Betty’s skin, her motions vigorous but pressure gentle. Like she’s handling one of her family’s expensive Glamourgé egg.

“How does that feel?”

“Much better,” she murmurs. “Thank you.”

Betty pulls the gown back up and messes with the ties on the back. Tying it up is more complicated than untying it was. Untying it was just a tug of the string and the knot coming loose.

Then Veronica shifts, Betty feels the gentle skin of her fingertips over her nape. She takes it upon herself to tie up the strings of Betty’s hospital gown just like she took it upon herself to zip up Betty’s cheerleading uniform. Flashbacks of the River Vixens’ tryouts run through her mind and somehow they feel both far away and just like yesterday.

“Do you know what you want to do with your hair?”

Betty licks her lips, sore and broken from forced fellatio and kisses she didn’t want. She flips through the magazine on her lap and taps a finger to a bob that had catches her eye.

“Do I have enough hair for that?”

Veronica hums thoughtfully.

“Maybe not that one, exactly, but here’s a similar one I think you could pull off.” Veronica reaches over Betty to flip the page.

Betty tilts her head at the model, whose wavy cut is slightly longer in the front than in the back, with the longest ends not quite brushing her chin.

“Okay,” Betty says evenly. “Let’s do this one.”

“Well we can explore other options if you’re not feeling it, B.”

“No, really, it’s okay. I have to work with they left me with and I trust your judgement.”

Veronica bobs her head and buzzes about like a bee, unloading the supplies in another tote. She drapes one of the towels around Betty’s shoulders and shakes the can of dry shampoo like she’s mad at it. It smells vaguely of vanilla when she sprays it, vanilla and something else Betty can’t quite place.

A spritz of dry conditioner and then Veronica brushes her hair. That feels different too.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, doesn’t have to specify what ‘it’ is because Betty can gather enough from her tone.

Betty runs her hand over the model in the magazine, the laminated page smooth and slick beneath her fingertips.

“I don’t know,” she admits.

Talking to Veronica is easier than talking to her mom or the police but Betty isn’t sure how much more she wants to share. Not only for her own sake but for Veronica’s. There are some things that you can never go back from knowing, some things that are so horrible to know that you can never again be the person you were before you knew them.

“It might help to talk about it,” Veronica says lightly, setting down the brush and taking up the scissors. “No pressure, either way. Whatever you’re feeling up to, B.”

Betty hums noncommittally and picks at the lint on the waffle weave blanket. She trusts Veronica implicitly and maybe, well maybe it would help to talk about it. She feels much better after telling Veronica what she has already and being assured that her physical response was just that, an involuntary physical response. Not a symptom of something twisted slithering in her soul.

On the other hand, there’s just so much to it, she’s not sure where to go from there. Not sure if she has the energy to relive her worst experiences in real time when she’s so tired simply keeping her head up for Veronica is a chore. Not sure if she even has the words to describe it, pretty sure even if she did have the words, they’d stick in her throat like bones.

“Does everyone know?” Betty asks suddenly.

“Hm?”

Metal scissor blades scrape softly as Veronica snips.

“Archie knows because he found me. My mom knows because she signed off on my treatment. You weren’t surprised when I told you, so…does everyone know, V?”

“Oh,” Veronica sighs, low and subdued.

A couple more snips. Betty watches blonde locks flutter to the towel, heart twisting in her chest.

“Riverdale is a small town,” she answers eventually.

“So everyone knows,” Betty concludes, swallowing a bitter taste as she irresistibly thinks of students hunched over tables in the lunch room, gossiping about her most intimate mutilation.

“Not necessarily but the rumors are flying left and right,” Veronica continues. “A lot of crazy stuff happened that night and the whole town is a mess. People are swarming over all of it, not just you. Your dad’s a hotter topic, for one…”

Snip. Spritz. Snip.

“Does Jughead know?”

“Only a little bit. His parents are trying not to freak him out.”

“Parents?” Betty echoes. “Plural?”

“Uh-huh, his mom’s in town.”

Betty can’t even remember the last time she saw Gladys Jones. Of course, it’s not like her mother ever let her near the Southside as a kid. Wait— Betty _can_ in fact remember the last time she saw Mrs. Jones. It was this dreary, drizzly afternoon in 7th grade.

Mrs. Jones picked Jughead up from school on a motorcycle. The engine roared like a tiger and her thirteen year old self, ever the amateur mechanic, was totally in awe. She wanted to get a closer look but her mother had snatched her hand and yanked her back beneath their umbrella. Rain pattered the vinyl and she stood glum in her galoshes, waving a brief 'bye' to Jug before her mother herded her to the car.

“How is he?” she asks.

Snip.

“Emo as ever,” scoffs Veronica. “He got his casts in black.”

“Oh my god, of course he did.” Betty lightly smacks her hand to her forehead.

“To be fair, I think he was high on Dilaudid,” Veronica says, amused lilt to her voice as she puts down the scissors and takes up a comb.

“He would’ve done it anyway,” Betty huffs, hand slipping to her mouth as she breathes a fond, adoring laugh. “God…I love him, V. He’s my weirdo,” she adds, recalling the outcast speech that takes the crown on the Top Ten list of emo things her boyfriend has said to her.  
  
“You bring out the best in each other,” Veronica praises warmly, smoothing the comb down the part in Betty’s hair. “Pastel Nancy Drew meets Undead Sherlock Holmes.”

A shiver runs down Betty’s spine and she reflexively tenses.

“Uh-oh, did I yank?” Veronica quickly withdrawals the comb.

“No, just…maybe don’t compare Jughead to anything that has to do with death for awhile.” Betty grimaces. “Aesthetically or otherwise.”

Veronica gasps. “Crap. Sorry, B, I wasn’t thinking.”

“I know.” Betty wills the sudden rabbity pace of her heart to slow. “It’s fine, I’m just…after everything…”

“Say no more.” Veronica gently squeezes her shoulder and takes the scissors again.

Betty nods gratefully. She doesn’t say anymore and Veronica doesn’t either. They fall into a comfortable silence, the only sounds coming from the snip of the scissors or the swish of the comb.

When Veronica finishes, she gives Betty a neat compact mirror and holds a handheld one at the back so she can see the cut.

“What do you think?”

It takes Betty a moment to give the haircut the attention it deserves. She is distracted by the sight of her broken nose, blood crusted around her nostrils and violet bruising bordering the stark white splint. Veronica adjusts the mirror slightly to allow her a better look and Betty manages to refocus.

It isn’t an ugly haircut. It’s short but the way it frames her face is flattering, really. It boasts good volume and the waves compliment her cheekbones. Veronica worked a miracle out of the mess she had to work with.

It isn’t an ugly haircut at all and even so, needles of unease pierce her heart like a pincushion. She didn’t make the choice to cut her hair, it was taken away from her. Yet another thing taken away from her. Another loss of many packed into the wretched night that sought to destroy her life in one fell swoop.  
  
Tears prickle her eyes and Betty furiously blinks them back.

“You hate it,” Veronica frets, reflection falling in the mirror.

“No.” Betty snaps the compact shut and tips her head back to look Veronica in the eye. “I like the cut, I just hate that it happened this way. That I’m in the hospital and that you’re salvaging what somebody else took from me. It should be us in your bedroom, in front of your vanity, styling it seven ways to Sunday before I make the choice to hack it off, or dye it, or whatever.”

“It should be,” Veronica agrees, something hardening in her eyes even as her voice quavers.

“But I do appreciate this, Veronica,” Betty promises. “All of it. Archie’s my hero, Juggie’s my weirdo, but you, V, you’re my rock.”

“My ride-or-die,” Veronica endears, gently tucking a tress behind Betty’s ear. “Full dark, no stars.”

“Sometimes you’re a little emo too,” Betty teases.

Veronica’s mouth falls open in mock offense. She flips Betty off with a perfectly manicured fingernail and then begins the cleanup. She rolls the slightly damp, hairy towels up in a plastic bag before she puts them back in the tote. Uses her hand to brush the stray hairs off Betty’s bed.

“Anything else you need, B?”

“I need a nap,” Betty admits, thoroughly wiped out even though it’s Veronica who did most of the work.

“I have just the thing for that.” Veronica snaps her fingers and reaches into another tote like a magician reaching into a top hat.

She whips out a throw, beige and brown patterned, and deftly drapes it over Betty.

“One-hundred percent vicuña wool,” she announces proudly. “There’s nothing softer.”

“Wow,” Betty murmurs, smile irresistibly blooming. “Thank you.”

It’s a little over the top but she’s not going to object to any spoiling right now. Over the top is just who Veronica is and Betty welcomes the familiarity. She can be counted on to be no one but herself and Betty loves her for it.

Veronica fiddles with her phone for a bit, sucking her lower lip between her teeth.

“Can I stay?” she asks. “If I’m quiet?”

Betty gives a weary nod and reclines back into the pillows.

**Author's Note:**

> Ngl, I still suck at titles so I took this one from a line in The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things.
> 
> So anyway, I am that bitch who LOVES writing platonic relationships. Friendships, parental relationships, sibling relationships, teammate relationships, etc. I feel like gen fic is very underrated so probably expect more of it from me in the future.
> 
> Will come back and fix typos later, too brain dead to do it rn.
> 
>  
> 
> Edit: Wow, that was a lot of typos. Fixed most of them I hope.


End file.
